The New Carbuncle
by skitskitpotter
Summary: It's Christmas at 221B, but of course Sherlock Holmes would never dare to let a holiday ruin his work... and of course, John Watson can't leave his best friend alone on a case. An adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Blue Carbuncle" for the BBC.


Thanks to KnyleBorealis on dA ( ) for her original character, who I borrowed from for Marian, and dedicated to my mother.

"Sherlock, I'm home."

I've been at my sister's for the past three days.

Harry and I don't often see one another. We barely attempted reconciliation to begin with, and after she broke things off with Clara, we both stopped trying. But a month ago she'd sent me a long letter explaining that she'd been sober for three months straight and that she wanted to see me. After much consideration, I decided that I should go to her. We didn't speak very much; I was distant and she regretful. I've known for a long time that the closeness we once had will never mend itself. But she was very open, very honest, and perhaps what we needed was to clear the air. It wasn't what I'd call pleasant, but it felt necessary.

The flat looks no different from how I left it, thankfully, though there's a surprising lack of activity. "Sherlock?" I say into the silence.

"I'm right here."

It takes me a moment to find him. He's curled on the sofa, heaped beneath a bundle of blankets, motionless save for his breathing.

I shiver and step over to the right of the door to check the thermostat. "It's barely ten degrees in here, Sherlock! Aren't you - ?"

He turns away from me and folds himself into a pillow. Biting back a reprimand, I adjust the temperature out of the arctic regions.

"So I'm assuming that you've just been like this for the whole time I've been gone?" I say. "No case, no… nothing?"

He groans. "Nothing except a bloody lost goose from an enraged agriculturalist," he says.

"What?"

With a sharp huff, he deigns to look at me. "A goose, John, a goose was stolen from a farm. It was a fascinating tale, I assure you." He groans again, letting a hand drop dramatically onto his forehead. "It's been so excessively dull since Mycroft arrested the last mafia head. He was nothing special, compared to me at least, but he made an effort. Everyone I've encountered since then has been a _crushing_ disappointment. I'm stuck waiting for one of the clever ones to make a move."

"Well. What a pity." He snorts.

I settle into the armchair usually designated as 'his' as I open the top newspaper on the three-day stack on the table. It's clear that he hasn't touched them. "I see you haven't checked the papers for anything?"

"Brilliant deduction, John. Perhaps you should do my job."

I stare at his head, again turned away from me. "Do you have a problem with me or something?"

"There's nothing to do. I'm sitting here stagnating, like a bloody… pond of algae." His foot kicks lamely out as if to accentuate his point.

Ignoring the fact that he's just made the strangest analogy I've ever heard, I say, "You're smart, aren't you? Think of something to occupy yourself with. I'm reading this." I shake the paper and settle it into my lap.

"It's not that simple," he says. "Having to think of something to do is no fun at all. It's a case of tautological disinterest."

"What?"

He huffs.

It's around noon when there's a knock from downstairs. Bolting upright out of a state of stupor, Sherlock glances expectantly at me. "Lestrade," he says. I shrug.

He discards his blankets, leaps to his feet, flashes a grin and swings the door open.

Lestrade's left hand is raised as if in pretense of greeting. His other is closed around the neck of a grayish, mottled goose.

The enthusiasm in Sherlock's eyes dies instantly.

"Compliments of the season, mates," Lestrade says brightly. With Sherlock glaring daggers at him, he takes it upon himself to step inside and rest the goose on the table.

"Is this for us?" I ask. "It looks wonderful."

Sherlock cuts him off before he's even able to speak. "This is ridiculous. I already told you that I have no desire to partake in this petty waste of my time."

Lestrade shoves his hands into his pockets. "Maybe not quite as much a waste of time as you'd think."

"So, not a gift," I comment as Sherlock challengingly lifts his chin. "This is the bird from before? From the enraged agriculturalist or whatever?"

"What could possibly interest me in this case?" Sherlock says, a mocking grin spreading across his face.

Lestrade, jaw set, rummages around in his pockets and produces a small packet. He hands it to Sherlock, who roughly undoes the wrapping.

The scorn on his face dissolves into an expression of absolute seriousness. Squinting, holds the object up to the light. "John." He extends his palm toward me to reveal, nestled amongst the ripped tissue paper, a sparkling blue stone. "Do you recognise this?" he asks.

I frown. "No, should I?"

Sherlock turns away from me to face out the window, suddenly deep in thought. Lestrade glances at him and shrugs slightly before responding, "They think it's the jewel stolen from Lady Morcar three days ago. It was taken from her overnight bags at the Charing Cross Hotel. She was distraught."

"It _is_ the jewel," Sherlock interjects. Decisively, he crosses over to me and rests the stone in my hand. "A blue carbuncle. It's the only one of its kind."

I turn the surface so that it catches the sunlight. With a brilliant white gleam, the gem flares into glory. It's of one of the most gorgeous things I've ever laid eyes on; it shines somewhere between the colours of the ocean and the sky, and if held at the proper angle, a hint of green mingles with the blue. "It's beautiful," I say.

"And valuable," Lestrade says. "The estimate online is at two-and-a-half million quid."

"Jesus."

"Not only that, but it's a Morcar family heirloom." Lestrade leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out. "The lady's extremely desirous of having it back in her possession."

"But what does it have to do with the goose?" I ask.

Lestrade raises his head. "That's the interesting part. It was found inside the goose."

"It would have been in the gullet," Sherlock adds.

"That's what the guard said."

"Guard." Sherlock's attention focuses immediately in on Lestrade.

"Yeah, the guard at the prison. He's the one who found it."

Sherlock steps thoughtfully around the room before settling onto the sofa. With a questioning glance at him, Lestrade continues, "That goose was brought in as a gift for one of the prisoners. It's fairly common around the holidays that stuff gets into the jails. The guard who had to pass it through found no problem with it in the first place, but by chance the light caught the stone and clued him in to the fact that the gem was there, right in the animal's throat." He chuckles. "Pretty bizarre, isn't it?"

"Who was it addressed to?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade gestures to the tag on the goose's foot. "Some Mr Henry Baker. The sender's last name was Petersen."

"Who brought it in, what did he look like?"

"She," Lestrade corrects. "The guard described her as a rather short woman, and she had on a very thick pink coat. Long blonde hair. He said she was quite pretty."

"And, obviously, she hasn't been located."

"No."

Sherlock presses his hands together beneath his chin. A small grin is on his lips. "The situation is fairly interesting," he says.

"So, you'll take the case, then?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock's brow raises. "Being that it's obvious my assistance is needed, I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"

Lestrade obviously has more tolerance than I do, as I watch him swallow down a retort. "Okay. I'll be heading back to the Yard, then."

With a quick nod at the two of us, he picks up the goose and opens the door. "Happy holidays," he says.

I offer a wave. Sherlock doesn't move.

"So," I say, turning to him, "what's our first order of business?"

He straightens his shoulders. "Mine alone. I'm going to pay a visit to the prison."

"Oh." I suppose he hears the note of hurt in my tone, because he frowns intensely at me. I quickly add, "That's fine, I guess."

"Good." The conversation concluded, he promptly strides over to the coat hanger. He doesn't bother to say goodbye, though he does call up the stairs, "Leftovers will suffice for supper."

I jump at the sound of a sudden bang on the door. "John, let me in!" comes my roommate's voice.

I shut the laptop and unlock the door to find Sherlock Holmes sopping wet in its frame, a small puddle of melting snow gathering beneath his shoes.

"What the hell happened?" I ask.

"An informative survey with… undesirable results," he offers, unhelpfully.

"No, I mean how on earth did you end up soaking wet?" I snap, shoving him down onto the sofa.

He kicks his shoes off and lifts his feet onto the seat. "I was running downhill with ice underfoot. Certainly you can conclude what happened." I'm about to suggest that he fell when he blusters on in that rare state of excitement only a case can lend him. "Now, I stood for some time outside of the prison, right where the goose would have been left yesterday – "

"Look," I interrupt, "I'm sure that's all wonderful, but I won't be happy having to deal with hypothermia when you end up with it, so for God's sake, take off your coat."

He huffs but deigns to obey. With decided purpose, he drops the coat into my arms.

"While making a thorough observation of the surroundings – " I try not to sigh, " – I reasoned that the deliverer of the goose had to have come from the east. Whoever this person was certainly wanted to appear as ordinary as possible, and so she would have calculated her route aware of that. The only sensible path from the south passed through an alleyway, and she would have preferred to avoid that – too suspicious – the western route twisted too much, and the northern route was too direct. The east was therefore the only plausible direction."

He grins smugly. I shrug. "So what?"

"So," he says in that tone of lecture, "I was able to trace the route back all the way to a farm. Jane Horner's farm, in fact, where there was a clear sign of unlawful entry beneath the fence for the animals."

I fill the kettle and set it to boil. "Who's Jane Horner?"

"The woman from before, the woman whose goose was stolen." He sneezes violently.

"Bless you."

"And so, as you can imagine, the expedition was quite informative."

I look at him. "I don't know what's so informative about that."

"This is." From his back pocket he produces a thin gray feather. "From this we can learn what type of goose we have on our hands here. When that's done, we'll be able to locate suppliers."

"And…?"

"And from them transactions, and from transactions buyers, and from buyers motives, and somewhere along that chain is our thief."

"Hm. Well." I shrug slightly. "Sounds like you've got it all figured out, then."

For the first time this evening, his face loses a hint of zeal. "Well. Not… entirely. I have specialised knowledge on a wide array of subjects, but fowl is not one of them. There's research to be done."

I nod. "And I'm assuming you're looking for my help to go and search for types of geese. Excellent." He's about to interrupt, but I say, "Why did you need the farm to go and find the bird anyway? Couldn't you just have asked Scotland Yard to look at the one that's there?"

"Too much effort. Though I suppose Jane Horner wasn't entirely too pleased with my presence." He clears his throat. "She must have thought that I was in the process of filching her geese when she saw me holding one of them. I would have attempted to explain myself, save for the fact that she rather abruptly began pursuing me with a hoe."

I don't ask. "So, what now?"

"I believe a trip to the library is in order." His knees pull closer to his chest as he attempts to hide a shiver.

"Where we're going to be reading about geese."

"Well."

"Hmm." With two mugs having been filled, I bring our tea into the main room and sit across from him. "Sounds like a ball."

He wakes me at six in the morning and immediately drags me down to the library. I don't even have time to get a spot of caffeine.

I'm led right up to the third floor into the nonfiction section. The far wall has an enormous set of encyclopaedias.

Sherlock pulls out the first six volumes and stacks them on a table in the back. He tosses the goose feather in the middle and hands me 'AE – AT'. I see that he takes 'AA – AD' for himself. At least he's doing some of the work.

I skim all the way through the As, half of the Bs, all the Cs – Sherlock takes both D and E – F, G, so on and so forth until I'm on 'TH – TW'.

I turn the page and I'm prepared to let my eyes vacantly glance over the text when I catch on a colour palette that looks familiar. There's a goose on the right page that's mottled with gray. "Sherlock," I say.

He grunts.

"I think this is it – 'Twente Landrace' goose?" I shove the encyclopaedia across the table. He tilts his chin up authoritatively as he surveys the entry. Without a word, he slams the book closed, swoops to his feet, and storms down the stairs. With a sigh, I follow him.

"I don't know much about fowl suppliers," he's calling up over his shoulder, "but that exact species was mentioned in the papers this morning, do you remember?"

"I didn't read the paper. You forced me up."

"Address was on Mercer Street," he says, ignoring me. "Right near the Charing Cross, in fact."

We hail a cab to the address Sherlock gives and pull up in front of a quaint shop with a pen of geese in back. The quiet chime of a bell greets us upon entry.

Only one person is inside the store, leaning over the counter. He glances us over before saying, "Hi, can I help you?"

"Yes, hi." Sherlock grins. "I'm something of a – well, I suppose you could call it a fowl fanatic. Sort of a strange hobby, but very rewarding nonetheless. I'm a professor of zoology, you see, and I specialise in avian animals."

The cashier does his best to hide the boredom struggling onto his face. "Yeah, interesting. But I only carry Twente Landrace."

"Exactly what I'm in the market for," Sherlock says enthusiastically. "And how much would one cost?"

"30 quid."

As Sherlock rummages through his pockets for his wallet, I see his eyes drifting to the back of the room. There's a fireplace warming a set of three seats, one of which has a pair of stockings draped over it.

In response to the question on Sherlock's face, the cashier says, "Those are my little sister's. She's quite the mess, always digging around in the dirt. I was hoping to dry them out before she got home this evening."

"Hmm." Sherlock straightens his back. "Sorry, what was your name again?"

The cashier looks curiously at him. "Ah… Jerry."

Sherlock sets the money on the table. He watches very closely as Jerry retrieves the transaction record from beneath the counter. I'm taken aback by the grin that tugs his lips upward.

I inquire after the smile once we're again seated in a cab, the goose in my lap. "On the list of names on the record of transactions, John, I found a Marian Petersen."

"Oh." My brow raises. "And you think this is the same Petersen who delivered the goose?"

"It's highly likely." 

"But why would she steal one and then buy one from a different person?"

Sherlock shrugs slightly. "Perhaps to throw off the scent. We'll be able to inquire after that once we've found her."

I smile at his confidence. "You're awfully certain."

"With good reason."

He's throwing off his coat and gliding up the stairs as soon as we're home. By the time I've hung up his scarf and opened the door, he's got his mobile to his ear.

"Lestrade, I've found – what…?" Almost as soon as he's begun talking, he cuts himself off. His brow furrows as he shifts his weight between his feet. "No, no," he says, "your people have got it wrong. That's impossible." His brow furrows. "Because she's innocent of the crime – well, she's not the right one!"

I frown. "Sherlock?"

"Of course I'm aware of that, but I am certain that it's not her," he continues, his voice raising as he addresses the mobile screen. "Well, of course, there's a complete lack of – and what evidence do _you_ have? That's she's your only one?" He scoffs. "No – no, it's an erroneous conclusion!"

Without warning, he rips the phone from his ear and hits 'end call'. "They've arrested Jane Horner."

"What?" He deigns to look at me. "But you said it couldn't be her."

"And it can't be."

"So they've got it wrong?"

He doesn't answer; instead, he presses his hands together and places them beneath his chin.

It's been about three hours since Sherlock called Lestrade.

I drop the newspaper I was unable to read this morning on my lap. "Do you think you could stop pacing?"

For a second, his footsteps scramble on the floor, and then he's marching up to me and leering down over my shoulder. "It's all gone awry, I'm convinced of it." He swoops across the length of the sofa, turns on a heel and starts pacing again.

I sigh. "Look, it's not like there's anything you can do about it anyway. Why don't you just give it a rest?"

He pauses. With indignant slowness, he turns to face me. "Give it a rest, John?" He taps his head. "This does not get rest. This is running all day, all the time, and it cannot stand this period of… stagnation!" He throws his arms up, lamely kicks the edge of the sofa and resumes his march. "You might not understand. I wouldn't expect you to understand, you're not the brilliant one – "

"Sherlock, stop," I say. He pouts at me. "If you're that worried – "

"I am _not_ worried," he interjects immediately. "I'm certain it's not her, the police just aren't particularly quick, or intelligent, or even remotely decent at their jobs. Her guilt wouldn't explain all the facts. What's the motive? There's no room for doubt, as usual, they're theorising before they have any evidence."

But for all his bravado, he's indeed taught me to observe; and I see the crease of his brow and the strain of his mouth and the bob of his throat.

I don't doubt him, certainly not. But I know as well as he does that Scotland Yard's going to have trouble renouncing any accusations without evidence beyond Sherlock's circumstantial proof.

"By God, I don't understand how they can't see it!" he exclaims. "It doesn't fit all the facts; there's so much they're missing. Completely blind." I make to respond, but without warning he growls and storms off down the hall.

I consider leaving him to his own devices, but of course my feet respond before my head can.

He's firmly planted in his desk chair by the time I've followed him into his room. The narrow line of his back is all I'm able to see of him.

"Sherlock." He doesn't so much as look at me.

Without another word, I pull one of the blankets off his bed and drape it over his back. He frowns up at me with a start.

"It's awfully cold," I say, gently.

His eyes lock on mine before they drift to the surface of the desk. "There's a connection I'm missing," he says; his voice is quiet. "Something I'm not seeing."

He's paler than usual, his posture slack, his eyelids heavy. "Sherlock – " I hesitate. "Maybe you should get some sleep," I say.

I brace myself for the inevitable bitter retort; but to my mild shock, he lets out a long breath, tilts his head back so it rests atop the chair.

"I'll leave you alone, if you want."

He looks at me, doesn't say anything.

I clap his shoulder. "Good night."

He doesn't respond; but once the door is closed behind my back, I hear him say, very softly, "Good night, John."

I wake to complete silence.

Clearly, Sherlock's not among the world of the living.

I walk as soundlessly as possible down the stairs to the bottom floor. The kettle's already on the stovetop; I fill it with water and take two sugar cubes from the cupboard, as he prefers. Today, especially, I figure he'd want his coffee perfect.

It's not that I'm worried about him; he's in a bit of a slump, nothing more. He goes through these periods of hesitation every now and then. I'm used to it. But I've come to realise that - though he would never admit it - he appreciates these small gestures, these tiny demonstrations of affection. He doesn't acknowledge them, and I don't think he wants to acknowledge them; but then I catch how he lets his coffee linger just a bit longer when I brew it for him, and how he stands just an inch closer to me when I offer to help him, and how he grins ever so slightly when I lavish him with praise. As infuriating as it can be, I've come to find his reluctance to let on about most anything endearing.

There's a sudden stir of noise down the hall. I can barely discern a vague grumble.

"John – _ow_!"

I jump at the sound of something clattering to the ground, followed by a loud groan.

"Sher – ?"

I stand up with the intent of finding out what's happened when he stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head. "John, I've got it," he says, swooping up to me.

"Got… what? Are you alright?" I ask.

"The evidence, John! I know exactly how to prove her innocence." He grabs my shoulders and gives me a violent shake. His eyes are practically aflame. "Oh, it's going to be brilliant! I don't know how I could have missed it, but still – brilliant." He prances away. I look after him in consternation as he briefly scratches his neck.

"Did you hit your head?" I call.

"On the lamp, it's fine. Get your coat!"

I really have no choice but to abandon the coffee yet again and obey.

I'm assuming we're going to Jane Horner's farm, but he gives the cabbie a different address from what he's told me when we flag down a taxi. "Where are we going?" I ask.

He grins enigmatically.

The driver stops outside of Jerry's shop. When we get out, I say, "Why are we here again?"

Sherlock shrugs vaguely. "For the purpose of information. There's something I need to hear."

I follow him inside. Jerry frowns upon seeing us. "Hello again."

"Hello, I do apologise for being back here. John, if you could check in the back for the…" He gives me a pointed look. I shuffle away.

"That's… fine," I hear Jerry say. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," is Sherlock's response, "I was interested in another of your geese."

"Oh, well – "

I hear a slight jangle as the keys to the back are taken off the wall. Sherlock clears his throat. "That's not necessary, it's a goose that's already been purchased."

The keys clank onto the counter. "Oh?" Jerry asks.

"Yes, I can't quite recall the buyer's name," Sherlock says. "It was a young lady… Marian Petersen."

There's an unusually long pause. Curiously, I glance over in their direction. Jerry appears taken aback.

"I wouldn't know her," he says. He swallows. "I don't keep track of – "

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Oh, I'd suggest you do know her, and know her quite well." His expression twists into a smirk. "Really very clever what you did there, signing your own name on the buyers' list. A significant dupe. But then, I wondered why you might be wearing a hat like that all the time."

"Sir, I don't know what – " Jerry begins, but Sherlock very suddenly leans over and grabs his hat. "Don't – let go!" Jerry exclaims.

"Sherl – " I start, but I'm cut off by the tumble of golden curls that goes cascading down Jerry's shoulders and back. He stares wide-eyed, open-mouthed at Sherlock.

"Well, Miss Petersen," Sherlock says. "It appears it's come down to this."

It's not until Jerry looks right at me that I realise what Sherlock means. He's a woman.

He was the thief.

There is a long, tight moment of silence. "What do you want?" she asks, very quietly.

Without taking his eyes off her, Sherlock addresses me. "Would you shut the door, John."

I step over to the front of the shop and quietly swing the door closed.

"Are you with the police?" the girl continues. "Why are you investigating me?"

"No, I'm not with the police," Sherlock says in a tone that borders on disdain. "And my motives are of no concern to you. Yours, however, are of great concern to me." He sweeps across the room with a grandiose toss of the head. "I've worked all of this out on the basis of logical reasoning. But logic understands its own limits, and therefore it's now up to you to furnish me with the details I need."

She stares at him. "You want me to tell you how I…"

"Stole the jewel. No, I want you to tell me why."

"I… there's a friend of mine."

"This 'friend' wouldn't happen to be Mr Henry Baker, would it?" Sherlock says. She nods. "And so you were the one to send the goose."

"Yes."

"Hmm." Sherlock comes to a halt as he looks out the window onto the wintry street. "Then why the carbuncle, why send that along?"

"Well, it's… it's a very long story. He was imprisoned on false charges." At Sherlock's look, she continues, "He's a part of a certain political organization… and as part of this organisation, he was accused of participating in one of its illegal movements, though he refused to be a part of it. He was tried and found guilty. The prison sentence was three years.

"I couldn't very well let that be. He and I are very close, and so I resolved to myself that I would do whatever it took to get him out." She swallows. "That was when I decided to send him the carbuncle."

Sherlock inclines his head, as if in understanding. I frown.

"Wouldn't he have come under suspicion for possessing the jewel?" I ask. "I mean, especially if they already think he's a criminal."

She shakes her head. "He was jailed long before I took the carbuncle. There's no way he could've stolen it while imprisoned."

I frown. "But what made you think they wouldn't just take it from him and return it to Lady Morcar?"

"I considered that," she says. "But eventually – "

"You realised that, with the case concerning so wealthy a person and having attracted so much publicity in such a short time, it would quickly become a necessity to uncover the exact details of the theft," Sherlock interjects. "Therefore, simply returning the carbuncle to its owner would not be satisfactory. Your companion could trade his information for his freedom. A simple case of plea bargaining."

She nods, her lips in a thin line as Sherlock paces back and forth across the room.

"But then," I resume, "then wouldn't the crime be traced back to you? I mean, if the information all got out, eventually…"

"Well." She glances up at Sherlock, who has paused in his pacing to look over at her. "I suppose I didn't take that into account, but – "

"But here you are," he finishes.

She nods.

"So!" he says, settling into one of the chairs in the back, "Let's have it."

With a quiet sigh, she folds her hands in her lap, stares down at her feet. "You must be Sherlock Holmes," she says.

"Yes." His fingers drum out a note of impatience on the arm of the chair.

"And you're – how did you figure this all out?"

"By looking," he says.

She blinks. "By looking," she repeats. "Looking at what?"

With a smirk, he turns his attention to the table in the back of the room. "At those stockings," he says. "You wore them when you took the goose."

Her eyes widen. "How on earth could you have known that?"

"Simple methodology. Now, Miss Petersen, I don't have all day, and certainly Scotland Yard would prefer this conundrum wrapped up with a tidy bow before Christmas. If you'd start speaking," he commands.

She draws a deep breath. "It was a matter of things happening all at the right time, more than anything," she says. "Henry had been in prison for about a month when I heard the story in the papers about Lady Morcar staying up at the Charing Cross. A friend of my sister's is the woman to whom the lady goes for tailoring. She noticed the carbuncle often. I didn't even begin to consider the possibility until I went to go and visit Henry. But knowing the value of the jewel, both to the lady and in terms of money…" She breaks off, and her lips thin into a grim smile. "I know it's awful that I thought like that. I suppose I must have been pretty desperate.

"Well, in any case, I suppose… I began to wait outside the hotel every day around five, when the lady returned to get ready for the evening. There was always an attendant of the hotel who accompanied her to her rooms, and so I doubted that I would have an easy time of stealing the jewel. Well, unless I could be that attendant.

"Disguise has always come pretty naturally to me. I loved playing dress-up when I was a girl. And copying him was fairly easy; all I needed was a suit and tie, and heels to match his height, though obviously I had to cover those. I chanced upon a great spot of luck when I saw him leave the hotel early one morning with a suitcase. I figured he must have been going on holiday, and so I was the one to greet the lady at five that evening.

"It was my intent from the start to steal the jewel. Even when I saw how immense its value was to Lady Morcar personally, I didn't falter. She took it out often over the three days I attended her, and though she was cautious of letting anyone else see where she kept it… I was careful to be very observant. I saw that there was a little box in one of the drawers she visited before going out every night. Certainly enough, that was where the carbuncle was. Following that, I of course realised the necessity of hanging around Charing Cross over the next couple of days so as to avert suspicion from myself. When the previous attendant returned from holiday, I disappeared.

"I considered what would be the best course of action. As far as anyone knew – and not many people did – I was just a poultry supplier. I was inconspicuous enough to begin with, and it made the most sense to me to deliver the carbuncle to Henry as myself. But beyond that, if the carbuncle were discovered, it would be all too easy to trace the crime back. So I decided then that, with the jewel having been delivered, I would disguise myself as a man. It was doubtful then, I thought, that anyone would be able to discern what had happened.

"Jane Horner had been a customer of mine previously, and I knew where her farm was. For obvious reasons I didn't want to use any of my own geese, and so I…" For the first time, she pauses. "Well, I stole one of hers.

"It was very dark at that time, and so it wasn't until the next morning that I realised I'd taken a Twente Landrace. This made me cautious, as I'm one of the few suppliers of that species in this area; and so, to further throw things off, I signed my own name on my buyers' list. You mentioned that I'd done that before, Mr Holmes. I thought that combined with my disguise would muddle the whole thing so much that no one would be able to figure it out."

Sherlock sniffs.

"After that, it was just a matter of transport. I went to the prison, goose in hand, filled out the necessary paperwork under the name Marian Petersen, and sent the gift in. I went back to the shop and immediately went into disguise. I didn't hear anything about the stone having been found that night, and so I was hopeful that everything had worked out, but… it's like you said before. Here I am."

The room falls quiet. Marian stares down at her lap. Sherlock is observing her every movement.

"Mr Holmes," she says suddenly, "I don't – I don't want your mercy. I've done wrong, and I understand that, so… if arrest me you must, at least let me keep my dignity." With perfect composure, with her face expressionless, she extends her hands, palms up, toward Sherlock.

There is a part of me that wants to tell him to just let the whole thing go, to let her go; there is something so achingly kind in her that I would loathe myself to convict her of anything. Certainly he's aware of the sentiment, but just as certainly, he disregards it. And the decision isn't mine to make. The case is entirely his, and I have to understand that his favour is with the law, not some petty emotionality.

I watch him carefully as he pulls himself to his feet and crosses to the window beside the door. His fingers, clasped behind his back, tap against one another as he thinks. She's watching him, too, hesitantly, in the corner of her eye.

It's far too quiet. "Mr Holmes – " Marian begins, but he cuts her off when he abruptly spins around.

"You'll need to keep the coat and hat. I'd recommend cutting your hair, dyeing it as long as it's a natural colour. Avoid the Charing Cross and the prison – "

"Mr Holmes, what are you talking about?" she interrupts.

He frowns. "Oh, come now, I thought you were quicker than that. The case will be out of the papers in two weeks at least, two months at most, so you'll need to do your best to avoid any attention at all until then, but don't be obvious about it. John and I – " he blinks at me, " – are going to visit Henry Baker, I don't imagine it will be difficult to free him of his charges once I've worked out the details of his case. It would, however, be imprudent for the two of you to be seen together. And that about covers it."

She understands what he's said before I do. "Mr Holmes, are you – ?"

"You'll need to leave from here." He swoops over and pulls the door open, gesturing out into the snow-covered street.

She stares at him. "I – "

"Quickly."

"Mr Holmes…" For what I realise to be the first time during this whole encounter, their eyes meet. Though his carriage and the frowning wrinkle in his nose would have turned anyone else away, she walks directly up to him. Firmly but tenderly, she takes his hand in both of hers. A hint of surprise registers on his face.

"Thank you," she says.

He's wordless as he stares down at her gloved hands. His lips part, as if with the intent of speaking; but he presses them closed and, dropping his eyes to meet hers, nods. She smiles and gently lets go of him.

"Happy Christmas to the both of you," she says. Hat and coat in hand, she hurries out the door.

"So how did you figure it out?" I ask when we're seated by the fireside at Baker Street. We stopped by Scotland Yard after meeting with Miss Petersen, and Sherlock was able to clear Jane Horner of suspicion when he showed that the footsteps the thief had left outside her fence were about three sizes too small for her feet. Lestrade had pressed him to track down the real culprit, but Sherlock, with his typical air of enigma, suggested that she would never be found.

Wrapped in a flannel blanket, he grins at me over the top of his mug of hot chocolate. I was surprised to find that he had a preference for it. "The stockings by the fireplace. A very simple detail, but obviously of great importance."

"Marian's stockings?"

"Yes. She had been drying them out, so clearly they'd recently been wet. The person who stole the goose from Jane Horner went under the fence, and therefore would have gotten soaked through thanks to the snow. Though it'd been a few days since the act of the theft, I suppose she decided to leave them out to give the pretense of having a sister. Yet another diversionary tactic, but it proved not to be conducive to her."

"Hmm." I glance at him. "You know, what you did, that was… that was good of you. Really good of you."

"What was?" he snips, his eyes roaming off into the distance.

"Don't play dumb," I say. "It doesn't work for you."

"Letting a criminal go was a good thing?" He laughs dryly. "My grasp on morality must be weaker than I thought."

"Sherlock – " His brow furrows at me. "I mean it," I say, quietly.

He clears his throat and turns his head away. "Well." If I hadn't been staring directly at him, I would have missed the tiniest twitch of a smile on his lips.

"Christmas dinner," he says suddenly. "What are we having?"

I try not to laugh. "Leftover stew. Maybe some potatoes, if I can find any?"

He chuckles. "I was hoping for a feast in which another bird might be the main feature. Perhaps the one we bought yesterday?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to leave something of that caliber to Mrs Hudson," I say. "They don't teach you geese in basic training."

I'm surprised by how widely he's smiling when I again turn to look at him. "Strange series of events, in my opinion," he comments.

"I suppose."

He faces me head on. "Happy Christmas, John."

I smile. "And a happy Christmas to you, Sherlock."


End file.
